Something About Emmaline

To the memory of Rody Burrows,
who taught me to play cribbage.
And let a kid win more times than she deserved to.
I shall never forget your patience,
your kindness or your stories.
And you will be a hero to me always.

England, 1801

“M
y last meal,” Lord John Tremont bemoaned as he tucked his knife and fork into the thick cut of beef before him. “But at least it is a fine one.”

“I suppose it helps that I am paying for all that, eh, Jack?” his best friend, Alexander Denford, Baron Sedgwick, commented dryly.

“You owe me nothing less,” Jack replied between bites.

“I owe you?” Alex laughed. “Now, I’m not one to call accounts between friends, but truly I don’t see how
I
owe
you.
” He refilled his glass from the bottle the innkeeper had left for them. Given that it was French and very dear, he knew he’d best get a few glasses in before his friend decided to attack the rare vintage with the same fervor as the roast beef. “Now, let me see, there was that rather large marker of yours I signed for last month at White’s.”

“Pocket change,” Jack said with a wave of his hand.

“And the lady of questionable character for whom I bought that bracelet because you feared losing her to old Ambercrombie?”

“That was a matter of honor.” Jack reached for another slice of beef. “Besides, can you imagine me losing Camilla’s affections to that fossil?” He shuddered, then eyed the claret.

Alex nudged it out of reach. “And what about that pair of cattle you had to have at Tatt’s but you hadn’t the blunt?”

Jack grinned. “Necessities, my good man. Besides, that was nothing more than I would do for you.”

“The only difference is that I have the money to afford all these
necessities,
whereas you do not.”

Jack’s fork paused between his plate and mouth. “Sedgwick, what the devil is wrong with you? You sound like my palsy brother tonight. What has you in such a foul temper?”

“Nothing,” Alex told him. “But I still don’t see how I can owe you anything.”

Jack grinned and leaned forward. “Have you forgotten your dear wife, Emmaline? Without me, you would never have obtained her devoted attentions. I think that leaves you utterly in my debt.”

This time Alex did laugh. “You think I owe you because of my wife? Some nerve, that.” He picked up the bottle of claret and poured his friend a glass. Jack Tremont was an annoying sponge, but he was also Alex’s best friend. Despite his spendthrift ways and penchant for peccadilloes, a more loyal friend Alex had never known.

“I think the success of your marriage was a stroke of genius, and worthy of unending reward,” Jack said, raising his glass in a mock toast, most likely to himself.

Worthy of something,
Alex mused. “My marriage is successful because I have the wit and wherewithal to bring it off. If you must know, it is careful planning and intelligence that make it work. You were merely the catalyst to seeing it come to life.”

His friend snorted. “Sedgwick, you are the most stodgy fellow alive. Careful planning and intelligence, indeed! Emmaline was the best thing that ever happened to you. She keeps you from being a complete dullard.”

“I am not dull,” Alex said, straightening his shoulders. “I’ll have you know some people consider me quite the dasher.”

“Who?” Jack demanded. “Ambercrombie’s ancient mother?”

Alex nudged the bottle of claret back out of reach. Then he looked up at Jack and they both broke into companionable laughter.

“I will own that I am perhaps not the first Corinthian people think of,” Alex admitted, “but I have my position and the responsibility of my family to consider.” And what a family it was. He had no brothers and sisters, but scads of cousins and aunts and uncles who relied on his benevolence to keep them employed and housed and fed, not to mention his tenants and servants. It was a burden he took with great seriousness and pride, though there were many times when he envied his friend’s situation—a third son and unlikely to inherit. Jack’s legacy would mostly be a lifetime of scandalous memories and unpaid vowels.

Jack shuddered. “Gads, how I detest those words. Position and responsibility.” He tossed back the claret and pushed his empty glass forward. “I propose we change the subject, for you are sounding more and more like Parkerton. It is bad
enough he has summoned me home for my annual accounting. I daresay, no one can tally accounts with more excruciating detail than my brother.” Jack took another bite of roast beef. “By the by, how is dear Emmaline? You don’t know how many times I’ve kicked myself for not marrying the chit myself.”

“Happily,” Alex told him, “there is only one Emmaline.”

“Is she in London or Westmoreland at present?”

“You know the answer to that.” Alex glanced over at the door. It wasn’t closed, but it was nearly shut and there seemed to be no one about.

“No, I don’t really,” Jack said, leaning back in his chair. “I mean when you are in London, the dear girl is supposedly happily awaiting your return to Westmoreland. And when you are home in the country, your family believes her to be living in London.” Jack leaned forward. “So I pose this puzzle—where does the chit reside when you are in neither place?”

Alex laughed. “That is why you could never manage such a marriage. I’ll say it again: careful planning and intelligence.” He tapped his skull. “Those are the reasons why I am married to Emmaline and you are not.”

“Bother both your smug assurances. Your hide is safe because your grandmother remains encamped in the north. Can you imagine if she ever decided to venture to town and discovered that Emmaline was nothing more than a figment of your imagination?”

Since that would never happen, he had no worries the dear lady would ever discover the truth.

That Emmaline Denford, Lady Sedgwick, had come to life one night five years earlier after too many hours of carousing with Jack. It wasn’t that Alex drank often, but he’d
been in low spirits and his friend had offered him a night away from the problems plaguing him—especially when Alex had declared he was leaving town the next morning.

Jack had protested vehemently against such a plan, for who would pay his drinks and debts if his best friend left London?

But Alex was tired of being harassed at every turn by marriage-minded mothers and their conniving daughters. It seemed that the entire eligible female population of London had set their cap to see him married that Season.

Never mind that it was a well-known fact that Sedgwick barons were rather unpredictable when it came to marriage, marrying late in life, if at all. For some it had been a case of wanderlust, like his grandfather, who spent most of his adult life in the army, having inherited his title late in his career from a cousin who’d never wed.

Perhaps Alex should have just made it a point to avoid London during the Season altogether, like his own father had, knowing too well that all anyone saw in him was the old and respected title, vast holdings in the north and the wealth to support even the most spendthrift of wife and in-laws. All that was just too tempting a lure for a mother with an unmarried daughter.

“No, there’s no way around it, my good man,” Jack had said. “You need to get married. That would get the cats off your back.”

“Married?” Alex shuddered. He just wasn’t sure he could take that next step. Certainly it was a matter of duty, but something held him back from taking that all-too-essential plunge. Besides, a wife, he was convinced, would be tempted to start reorganizing his perfectly ordered life. “I’d rather see Hubert inherit,” he declared.

“Never!” Jack drained the expensive champagne with a long guzzle. “Do you think Hubert would be inclined to pay my vowels? I think not!” He paused and raked a hand through his hair. “Why couldn’t you get married, but not actually take a bride? Invent one, so to say. I’d wager that if you placed a notice in the
Post,
told the world you’d married, they’d all leave you alone.”

It had been that simple. Alex had always considered himself a sensible fellow, but he’d been desperate, and in a flash, Emmaline was created. With a proper and likely lineage found with the help of an old copy of
Debrett’s,
they’d dashed off a notice and tipped a lad to deliver it forthwith to the paper.

And to his utter amazement, his
faux
bride had done the trick. The night after the announcement appeared, he’d been left blissfully alone, with only a few scathing glances shot in his direction from his more persistent, now former, pursuers. To the few curious who’d dared question his sudden marriage, he declared Emmaline to be in poor health and living in seclusion in the country. His stodgy reputation offered its own advantage, for then he’d give a strict, uninviting stare that cut off any further inquiries.

The arrival of Emmaline into his life had also given him the added bonus of eliminating his grandmother’s nagging. Well, most of it. She’d written to him with her overjoyed blessings that he had finally wed.

When he’d returned home that summer, he’d explained his wife’s absence by stating that her delicate health prevented her from traveling so far. When he’d returned the next Season, any inquiries about Lady Sedgwick were met with the same explanation—Emmaline’s health prevented her from traveling to London.

And thus, the perfect wife had entered his life.

Though not everyone was convinced of the wisdom of his solution. His solicitor had warned him time and time again that a false wife was but asking for trouble. Bother the authorities, Alex had told the man, for there would be worse hell to pay if his grandmother discovered the truth. Then again, his grandmother’s distaste for London was the key to Emmaline’s existence, or rather lack of one.

“How is it that your grandmother hasn’t discovered your secret?” Jack asked, eyeing the roast beef and the wine and in an apparent dilemma as to which to go after next. “I mean, if anyone is likely to ferret out an incongruity, it is her.”

“Right you are, but then again,” Alex said, tapping his skull, “careful planning has ensured my success. As it is, my solicitor’s wife pens a carefully worded letter to Grandmère every six weeks and signs it as Emmaline.”

“I suppose being dull has its advantages,” Jack admitted. “Why, you’ve thought of everything.” He rose up and leaned over the table, his long arm reaching for and succeeding in gaining the bottle of claret. He filled his glass and then topped off Alex’s.

Raising his glass in a toast, he said, “To Emmaline Denford, Baroness Sedgwick, the most perfect wife ever.”

“To Emmaline,” Alex agreed.

In the shadows outside the private dining room, a woman retreated from the partially opened door. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but the conversation inside had caught her ear, and she’d found herself spellbound by the revelations.

Sedgwick’s wife didn’t exist?

It was so unbelievable, she thought as she silently made
her way out of the inn and to the waiting carriage. Oh, this information was far too valuable, far too scandalous not to be put to good use immediately.

And she knew exactly where to start…